Ben:???????????????What would she say?
Ivy:?????????????????She would tell people things like, “I majored in partying,” or “I was a terrible college student, but a truly excellent sorority girl.” It just made her sound dumb, and she wasn’t dumb. She’d gotten a scholarship to Tulane. She was her high school salutatorian, for god’s sake! She was just too young. I know plenty of eighteen-year-olds do just fine leaving home, but she didn’t. She was a sweet girl who just wasn’t ready to be on her own. She was finally starting to get her feet under her again when Lucy moved back to town.
Ben:???????????????And you said it was awkward at first? Because of the college thing?
Ivy:?????????????????Savvy said that Lucy looked really uncomfortable at first, and Matt had to jump in and save her. Matt was always doing that. He’s a real charmer. No idea what he saw in Lucy. But I guess Lucy and Savvy got to talking, and they decided to meet up for drinks the next day. I was turned off by the whole thing right away, honestly.
Ben:???????????????Why?
Ivy:?????????????????It just sounded like Lucy was taking pity on Savvy. Lucy had moved back to town with her rich, handsome husband, they’d bought this gorgeous old house, and she was helping her husband open this fancy brewery restaurant thing. And then she comes across the former homecoming queen, who has dropped out of college and is now a bartender? Please. It was so obvious that Lucy liked how the tables had turned.
Ben:???????????????Did Savvy get that impression from Lucy?
Ivy:?????????????????No. Not that she said, anyway. But that girl had blinders on when it came to Lucy. She didn’t see the real woman. Not until it was too late.
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCY
The bedroom I lived in for the first eighteen years of my life looks nothing like it did when I was younger. Before leaving for Los Angeles, I cleared out the entire room. Took everything off the walls and boxed it all up, emptied the closet and dresser, tossed all the old notebooks and school assignments in my desk.
Mom replaced the furniture at some point—the twin bed is now a queen, and the dresser and desk are new—and so the room is completely different than when it was mine. It’s a relief.
I pull my laptop out of my bag and plop down on the bed, which is hard as a rock. Mom thinks that soft beds are bad for your back, and she won’t be convinced otherwise.
I have a few emails, a couple book-related, one hate-mail-related （“Who did you sleep with to get the charges dropped, you evil bitch?”）， and one from my agent, Aubrey. Aubrey Vargas is a perpetually upbeat woman, and she has sent me an email with a lot of exclamation points about how she’s not at all worried about the podcast. “Your real name will be kept under wraps here as usual! I hope you have a great time in Texas!”
Sure, Aubrey. The best time.
I also have a mountain of social media notifications, and I scroll through them quickly. I only have active social media accounts under the Eva Knightley name. I had Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter accounts once upon a time, but I shut them down a long time ago. It felt too risky. I’d just barely skirted beneath the radar of social media for years before this podcast. I never wanted to tempt fate.
Eva Knightley is just a bubbly romance author with lots of （strictly online） friends. No one thinks she’s murdered anyone, with the exception of the occasional fictional character.
I scroll through the comments on my Facebook reader group page, where a few people are discussing Clayton, the evil ex-boyfriend in my last book.
“Am I the only one who thought that Clayton was going to mysteriously die at the end?” Amber Hutton wrote.
“Yes!” Erica Burton replied. “When Poppy says ‘literally no one would miss you if you disappeared tomorrow, Clayton,’ I was like, she is going to murder that dude! And I’m not going to be sad about it!”
“LOL,” Amber replied, “100%. For a minute I wondered if I’d picked up a really weird romance novel, because the heroine doesn’t usually kill people.”
“Eva, maybe you should be writing serial killer books too!”
I snort as I type out a reply. “Not a bad idea. Watch out, world—I’m entering my murder era!”
The comment immediately starts to get likes and laughs. I have to wonder if they’d think it was funny if they knew who I really was.
“Lucy, dinner!” my mom calls from downstairs, and suddenly I’m sixteen again. I wish I’d gotten the stupid hotel room.
* * *
Dad made dinner. Both my parents cook, but Dad does it most of the time. He’s better at it, and he enjoys banging the pots on the stove really loudly when he’s annoyed.